The Most Demanding Tenant
by doctoring
Summary: People assumed Mrs. Hudson was used to Sherlocks antics. Which she usually is, but not today. Today, he's getting on her last nerve and she's on the verge of snapping. / Takes place very early in the series. / A fic written for Writer's Month. Word Prompt: annoyance


_A/N: So I've decided to do Writer's Month, meaning there will be a bunch of short fics posted (almost) daily (provided I find the time to post)._

_But I'll also be finishing up those other ongoing fics, no worries._

_For updates you can check .com_

* * *

Mrs. Hudson sits the tray down on the counter a bit too roughly. She berates herself internally for getting upset and abusing her tea ware like this.

But as the kettle boils, she recounts what had just happened.

How Sherlock had called out to her in a rage.

How he refused to say what was the matter and forced her to come upstairs.

How he demanded to know where the tea was.

_Where the tea was? It was in the bloody tin because I wasn't making any tea. I had no need to make tea! I'm not your bloody servant!_

She honestly didn't realize she had been giving him tea around the same time every day for ten days. She just so happened to make tea at that time and decided to be nice and give him a cup.

But this demanding nature, how he whined about tea not being on the end table where it 'should have been an hour ago,' had taken her by surprised and she ended up complying so readily. She's not obligated to get him tea. There was no reason for his behavior, and she should have told him that.

_But here I am, making that fool some tea… who's the real fool here?_

She calmed herself as she made the tea, convinced that was the worst of it. But when she ventured back into his apartment, she found him rummaging around in the freezer, bags of freezer-burnt meat falling to the ground in his haste.

She tried to move a few flasks to the side as she set down the tray. "Sherlock, can't you just tidy up a little now and again."

"I thought that was your job."

"I am not your maid!" She was about to protest further but felt sick as Sherlock picked up one of the fallen bags of meat, getting a better at it. It wasn't meat, per se, not the kind you'd typically ingest.

It was a human foot.

She quickly set the tray down and put a hand to her stomach, feeling nauseated. "Sherlock, surely you're not-"

"I need to see the effects of freezing on bodies that have been dead for varying hours.

She felt her stomach react at the thought of what might be in the refrigerator portion, that would still be rotting rather than frozen. She rushes out of the room, trying to hold back any sickness she felt.

As she goes down the stairs slowly, as to not cause even more of an upset stomach than she already has, she finds herself leaning over the banister for a moment. She hears the door above her open.

_Don't. Say. A. Word. Sherlock._

But his powers of deduction stop at mind reading.

"Could you please do me a small favor, Mrs. Hudson?"

She takes a steadying breath.

_He said 'please' and asked for a small favor. It can't be that bad. I just need to calm down. This is typical Sherlock antics. I should be used to-_

"Could you possibly pop over to the market and get me 20 kilograms of potatoes?"

She hears the door shut and then open again.

"Oh, and do get a variety of them. Not just all one type."

The door slams shut.

"WHAT DO YOU NEED TWENTY KILOGRAMS OF POTATOES FOR?"

She storms off to her room.

_Twenty Kilograms._

_TWENTY._

_KILOGRAM._

_I'm not even sure I could lift that much, besides the fact that I don't want to do such an asinine favor for him! This is completely absurd! He has got to be the most annoying, most obnoxious, most demanding tenant I have ever met! If he asks me just one more thing today, anything at all, the next murder he'll have to solve will be HIS OWN._

She reaches into a tin box for a cigarette, and pauses, deciding she needs something just a hair stronger. Her hands are shaking as she lights up, willing herself to calm down as she inhales the smoke.

"I didn't know you smoked."

Mrs. Hudson jumps with a start, slapping a hand over her rapid heart. "John! You gave me a start!"

"Sorry… Is this a habit of yours?" John gestures awkwardly to her spliff.

"I wouldn't necessarily call it a habit, no."

"Mhmm…. Well, you might want to consider stopping… smoking is not the best for you."

Mrs. Hudson scoffs. "You'd be doing the same if you had put up with Sherlock for as long as I have."

There's a loud thud upstairs and both of them roll their eyes.

"Best go check on him," John says quietly.

"Please do, dear."

Mrs. Hudson paced her kitchen while smoking, thinking of ways to end Sherlock in his sleep, as she ignored the sounds upstairs, particularly the one that sounded like a gun. He does this sort of thing all the time, but today, his behavior annoyed Mrs. Hudson terribly.

It's been three months, and she's still not sure why she almost snapped that day.

She's making tea and hears John come in, shouting before the front door is even shut. She hears him all the way up the stairs. There're more loud noises for about a minute or two, then she hears him start to descend the stairs. His pace and the volume of his steps indicates anger.

She quickly grabs another spliff and steps outside her door. She casually holds it out for him to grab as he races by.

He slows as he nears her, and takes it with no questions besides, "Got a light?"

He takes a few hits before handing it back to her, then storms out the door, thought significantly calmer than earlier.

She feels bad for John, but at least Sherlock hasn't made any outrageous demands in a week. Not to her at least. There are still the issues with the odd hours that he keeps and the disaster of a kitchen that indicated no deposit will be refunded, if she's being generous. But she honestly can't imagine Sherlock ever moving out… or what her life would be like without him.

She stands there as Sherlock rushes down the stairs.

"Going to go get John?" she asks, hoping the teasing in her voice doesn't show.

He eyes her and says, "Perhaps," before continuing on his way.

It's only another twenty minutes before she hears both men return, and John laughing as he ascends the stairs.

She can imagine Sherlock now, with one of two typical expressions. Confusion as to why John's laughing at him, or a slight grin, as if he was trying to hide how happy he really is. She hopes it is the latter.

_John's good for him… I'm glad he's putting up with Sherlock so far…_

.the end.


End file.
